


Craving

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Nightmares, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Spencer Reid Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29124273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “What are you doing here?” he croaks, mouth too dry to form the words, like he’s still choking on grave dirt.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Craving

It’s not the cravings that almost break him, and it’s not the physical withdrawal symptoms. It’s the insomnia, and then it’s the dreams. 

Spencer can’t sleep for two days. Those first forty-eight hours are a blur of sweat and nausea and _wanting_. 

Spencer is used to that part: wanting. He’s used to wanting things he can’t have — wanting them so badly it feels like he’s being crushed by the weight of it — because he spent _so much_ of his life wanting impossible things. The cravings are just an echo of the ache that used to be a constant companion. 

He wanted children to be less cruel. He wanted to understand them, to make himself understood, to communicate and connect in that easy way they seemed to connect with each other. He wanted his father to come back and his mother to get better. When he gave up on those things, he wanted someone — anyone — to help him. He wanted someone to share the weight, on her bad days, and to tell him he was doing the right thing. 

He was never much of a hugger, but sometimes he wanted to be held, just for a moment. Sometimes everything got so _heavy_. Sometimes he wanted someone there to help him carry it all. 

He curls up on the couch and shivers, sweats, waits for it to pass, and when he finally closes his eyes he can’t tell whether he’s dreaming or hallucinating. 

_Substance abuse affects dopamine production. Dopamine regulates sleep, and withdrawal interferes with sleep architecture,_ Spencer recites. _Sleep architecture: the structure of the phases of normal sleep, as shown on a hypnogram._ He draws it on the chalkboard, sketching out the peaks and valleys. 

This graph is all wrong. He stares at it in horror, tries to erase it, but he made a mistake and he can’t fix it. The class is laughing at him, and he turns to face them. He’s naked, of course, and tied to the goalposts, and he can’t get away from his mistake. He thrashes with all his might, but he can’t move. 

He opens his eyes and he’s back on his couch, but there’s something heavy on top of him. Tobias: eyes glazed and lifeless, with a bullet that had been meant for Spencer lodged in his chest. 

Spencer can’t move. Every cell in his body wants to get away. 

When the paralysis fades he’s choking, scrambling away from the couch, trying to run for the bathroom, but he’s tangled in blankets and tripping and stumbling — and he falls, gags, but there’s nothing left in his stomach anyway. 

He doesn’t have the energy to drag himself to his feet, and he can’t shake the image of the corpse pinning him to the couch, so he just wraps himself in a blanket and sits on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, wondering when it’ll end. Everything hurts. 

_Make it stop,_ he thinks, and shivers, because that’s what he thought that last time Hankel pointed the gun at his head: _I’ve had enough. Please make it stop._

He closes his eyes and Tobias is there, smiling a little sadly. 

_Welcome back_ , he says. 

_This is a dream_ , Spencer tells him. 

_Maybe. Maybe not. Morphine is named for Morpheus, the god of sleep, you know. You prayed. I answered._

Spencer is in the chair again, aching all over — stripped naked and tied up and left alone — and maybe he should fight harder, but Tobias is holding a syringe and Spencer’s too tired to fight any more. 

_You’re weak,_ Tobias says, in his father’s voice. _And I’m leaving._

_Please don’t. Please don’t leave me._ Spencer’s squirming away from the needle, writhing against the restraints —

_You’re weak. Look what you did, boy._

— but when he looks down he doesn’t see anything holding him in the chair after all. There’s just the spidery threads of blood spreading from the hole where the needle was. 

Spencer’s holding the syringe, and when he looks up, it’s the team walking away, shaking their heads, leaving him alone, leaving him to die here. 

He thrashes and screams and the chair falls over, lands with a _thunk_ that knocks the breath from his lungs, and Spencer wakes up, dragging in deep uneven gulps of air, sitting up on the hard cold floor with his head spinning and his muscles screaming. 

He wants to shout, _don’t leave me,_ but his apartment is empty; it’s too late. 

Time has passed. He can’t be sure how much time, but it’s dark now. Twelve hours since he fell asleep, maybe, but he feels more exhausted than ever. It takes every bit of his energy to drag himself back to the couch. 

Hotch had just nodded when Spencer said he needed a little time off. The team knows, in an abstract sort of way, but nobody has talked about it. They _won’t_ talk about it; they _can’t_. They can’t say it out loud — _addiction_ — because… plausible deniability, really, is what it boils down to. 

The first step is admitting you have a problem. Spencer has to take that step alone, and all the other steps too. 

Loneliness is a familiar feeling. He should really be used to it; he spent most of his life lonely. This should be scar tissue, by now, but apparently it was just a scab, and Spencer’s never been good at leaving those alone. He has the pale craters of his chicken pox to show for it. 

Spencer hasn’t been lonely for a couple years now — not like this — because as much as he still feels like the odd one out more often than not (it’s never easy, even if he’s gotten better at communicating) he’s part of a _team_. He has a place there. There’s somebody who feels more like a father than his own father ever has, albeit in a grouchy, scowling kind of way. There’s an older brother who ruffles his hair and calls him pretty boy. There’s a girl whose smile looks like the sun coming out after a storm. 

And there’s Hotch, who found him in that cemetery because he knew Spencer well enough to hear the coded message, because he _understood_ , and that’ll never take away the memory of all the blank stares over the years, but it felt like a turning point. 

He closes his eyes and Hotch is peering down into the grave Spencer dug for himself. Hotch shakes his head sadly. _You got yourself into this mess and you have to get yourself out of it again._

Spencer tries to speak but there’s dirt in his mouth. 

_I don’t know what you’re saying, Spencer._

_Help me,_ he tries to say, but all the other kids are just watching and laughing. 

_We can’t help you, Spencer. You’re on your own._

He tries to climb, but there’s too much dirt. Hotch keeps shoveling, and it’s too heavy, on top of him. It’s weighing him down.

_Spencer. Look what you’ve done._

_Spencer. Spencer!_

Consciousness sneaks up gradually. He’s tangled in his blanket, soaked in sweat, but there’s someone banging on the door. 

“Spencer!” she’s shouting. “You have five seconds and then I’m picking your lock!” 

He opens the door just as she raises her fist again. Her eyes go wide when she sees him, and her mouth drops open, and Spencer’s cheeks burn when he realizes how he must look. 

“What are you doing here?” he croaks, mouth too dry to form the words, like he’s still choking on grave dirt.

“I’m going to make you some tea,” she informs him. “And maybe some soup, if that goes well. Okay?” She shoulders past him before he can insist he’s fine. 

“You don’t have to,” he mumbles. 

“Bullshit. That’s what friends are for,” she says briskly. He closes the door and trails after her as she marches into his kitchen. She pours a glass of water and hands it to him, standing there with her arms crossed as he drinks it down. His hand trembles as he gives the glass back, and she sets it in the sink.

“Why—” he tries. 

“Because you’re my friend,” she says, jaw set stubbornly, but her eyes are sad. She wraps her arms around him, pulls him close, fingers clutching the thin sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt, and she lets out a slow, shaky exhale. He’s swaying, unsteady on his feet, but she supports him and keeps him steady. 

“I didn’t mean to make you worry, I’m sorry. I haven’t showered, you don’t have to—” He tries to make himself step back, but she squeezes him closer. 

“Please let me help,” she whispers. “Please don’t try to do this alone.” 

Spencer clings, burying his face in her neck, and holds on. 


End file.
